


Rejectamentalist Rad

by septicwheelbarrow



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, GoTG AU, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septicwheelbarrow/pseuds/septicwheelbarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disgraced war veteran Charles Xavier just wants to waste the rest of his life away in Knowhere, really, peddling things in exchange for a couple of drinks. That's when Erik-<em>asshole</em>-Lehnsherr comes along, and guess what? He brings the fucking Mind Gem with him.</p>
<p>Not really a Guardians of the Galaxy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rejectamentalist Rad

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat ( _not really_ ) of a GoTG AU where Charles is Starlord and Rocket combined, Erik is Gamora and Drax, and that unfortunately (or fortunately) leaves Raven to be a giant bitchin' tree. Now, the logistics of that doesn't add up, so Raven is now a little bitchin' morphling instead. Actually, it's just because the idea of Raven as a small amorphous blob amuses me. And I envision Charles as the dickish, self-abusing DOFP!Charles here.
> 
> Also, in case anyone isn't familiar, the Mind Gem is one of the Infinity Stones, and it gives its holder telepathic powers. Yay!

The residents of Knowhere, as much as they could be called _residents_ , name the severed Celestial head their rather unscrupulous metropolitan infests Bork. As far as everyone is aware, Bork does nothing but amble around and occasionally skirt the edge of the universe, but he does so with such earnest, majestic character you can't help but feel glumly affectionate for the thing. But really, Bork is just a head. After a while, a motionless giant head becomes boring, no matter from what otherworldly creature it came.

_Real_ fun begins deep inside Knowhere, the proverbial brain to the giant doddling head. Knowhere is where all the veins run, where all the good goods get worse and all the bad _bads_ get better. Knowhere is where hitmen find hits and assassins find asses, where the best and worst of indulgences combine, and in that whole quagmire the rich get richer and the poor get rich, all those streethouses carting money, money, money, a boatload of money firing from neuron to neuron. Forget the colour of your skin or the curvature of your horns, in Knowhere the only thing that speaks is the weight in your pockets. You can be anything in Knowhere, and the people there know it.

It's a business hub, is what it is. It's a home for the lost and a memory for the forget _ful_ , the best of both worlds, a blazing inter-galactic innovation inside a giant severed head affectionately named Bork.

Or maybe Knowhere, like Charles, is just a fucking shitstain upon the galaxy. That too.

Whatever is it, it hosts the best parties and sells the best books. Charles has been chugging himself stupid at _Starlin's_ for three days straight, alternating between drinking competitions with the other patrons and drinking competitions with himself.

"What's the occasion, pal?" the bartender asks, sliding six tankards across the bar counter simultaneously.

"My mother died," Charles hiccups.

"Pity," the bartender shrugs.

"No, no," Charles sways, unintentionally slapping the back of his hand against his mouth. Since it's already raised, he drags his palm up to rub away the redness of his eyes. "It's a happy occasion. I'm celebrating, you see."

"Sure thing, bub," the bartender shrugs again, and refills the tankard. Charles feels a great swell of affection for the creature.

"Ahoy, mate," he mutters, settling back down to his seat. Was he standing? No matter, there's beer now.

Just before he can gulp down his brew, however, a blue scaly critter invades his peripheral vision and bodyslams him on the cheek.

"Raven!" the morphling squeals imploringly.

"Fuck!" Charles replies, and swings his tankard towards his tiny, agile assailant. Inevitably, beer sloshes theatrically onto the counter, and the bartender glares and uses one of his tails to retrieve a dishcloth from a nearby cabinet. Charles marvels a little at the futility - the counter has more bacterial growth than a septic tank, at this point. Charles' beer probably sterilised the damn thing.

"Raven Raven Raven!" the morphling tries again, multiple times, this time aiming her screeches right into Charles' ear.

"Fuck's sake, alright," Charles sighs, and moves to get up. His limbs feel heavy, feet dragging along at a listless pace as he makes his way to the exit. Out in the street, freezing inter-galactic air headbutts him like a sledgehammer.

"Jesus," Charles gasps, nostrils burning. "That's the freshest air in the universe, right there." His ears register a series of clicks, getting increasingly louder by the second. "And what's that infernal clicking noise?" He looks to his right, where the sound seems to originate. A crayfish and a khepri are copulating in a gutter, their pincers beating against each others' excitedly, splattering dark brown sewer water all around. Which, in this light, looks a little bit too much like blood. Charles looks away, grimacing. "Never mind."

"Raven," Raven chirps happily, and then her countenance turns questioning.

"What next?" Charles says in response, and begins making his way to the hotel, gingerly stepping over some dreamshit a druggie must've left behind. "What's next is that we give this to Frost and earn ourselves a couple million units."

And then Charles finds himself being _slammed_ into a crumbling brick wall. Just forcibly _slammed_ , head first, straight into a brick wall with more mildew than brick, and if his skull wasn't among the hardest in the galaxy it'd probably be smushed in by now.

"Frost?" his attacker growls behind him. Rather sexily, his beer-addled brain supplies. "Did you mean Emma Frost?"

Craning his neck to face his assailant results in an awkward position and a terrible crick; half of his face still impressioned against the wall, Charles addresses the vague leather-clad figure in his peripheral vision, with as much indignant sarcasm as he can muster, " _No_ , Jack Frost. Father Christmas, you familiar?"

"...No," his attacker mutters, sounding adorably confused before returning into sharp focus. "I'm Jewish."

One of the Old Earth religions? Very interesting. "Interesting," Charles parrots his thoughts. His hand tightens over his satchel. "So, you mind letting me go now?"

The hand around his neck tightens in response. Charles groans. Distantly, he hears Raven's indignant shrieks and hopes to _god_ the morphling gnaws at his assailant to bits.

"I take that back," Charles says. With half a mouth, considering the other half is still pancaked against a disgustingly dirty wall. "This is not in any way interesting. It is rather painful and foul-smelling, in fact."

"Do you know anything about Emma Frost?"

"Yes," Charles hisses, blindly aiming a backwards kick. His foot makes contact with nothing but air. "And I won't tell you about it until you let me go."

At his words, he finds himself being dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He turns to face the violent stranger, only for a knife to wedge itself to the wall right where his ear was, two seconds ago. Charles sees slivers of hair falling past his shoulders, and then feels the pinprick-pain of the knife slicing into his temple. Beer-fueled indignacy bubbles up his throat, and he opens his mouth to curse vehemently. "You," he begins, before he can get a better sight of the stranger, but he clamps tight on the urge to shove that damn knife back up his assailant's butt. If nothing else, he prides himself on impulse control.

He slams his eyes shut. With a heavy breath, Charles tries again. "Look," he says, in a much more even tone. What comes after dissolves on the tip of his tongue when he finally opens his eyes to get a good look at his attacker. "Uh..."

"Where is Frost?" the man growls, so close to Charles that his breath lands on Charles' lips.

"Is the knife really necessary?" Charles answers, as he surveys the man up and down. The first thing that strikes Charles about him - aside from that freaking _huge_ knife, seriously, who carries that around? - is his eyes. He cuts a menacing figure, this stranger, tall and sleek and black leather-clad, but the dangerous look is a dime a dozen in Knowhere. What's memorable about the man currently holding him hostage is the boiling rage behind his eyes. And, underneath that, pain. A hell lot of pain.

_Welcome to Knowhere_ , Charles thinks to himself dryly. So you're sad. What's new.

" _Where_ is Frost?!" the man repeats. Maybe he can't say anything else, like Raven. Although Raven _is_ a morphling, and they don't tend to say very much at all. And this guy, for all intents and purposes, looks human. Well, he amends, there are certain species of humanoids that -

His mental excursion must have projected itself on his face, because his train of thought is interrupted when the man sighs and steps back. "Erik Lehnsherr. That's my name."

"Oh," Charles says. "I'm Charles." And then, with a smirk, because smug civilized discourse where he isn't being threatened is much more his _thing_ , "You may know me as X."

Erik appears to consider, but, "No. Never heard of X."

Charles sighs and reminds himself that grown men do not pout. "Never you mind. What do you want?"

"Emma Frost," Erik says, for, what, the fourth time? "Do you know her?"

"Everyone knows Frost," Charles answers. Everyone worth knowing, anyway. "Mutinous daughter of the Shadow King, the Diamond Dreamcrawler, the most recent possessor of the Mind Gem. Right now she owes Raven and I something - well, a lot of somethings, really - so if you could step away, that would be great."

"What does she owe you for?"

Charles straightens his coat and beckons Raven to follow. "I don't believe that's any of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me."

This is where the knife makes its reappearance. Right in front of Charles' nose. Beside him, Raven squeaks indignantly, her scales rippling puce.

Erik says, "You don't leave until I say so."

"And who made you the ruler of the galaxy?" Charles rolls his eyes. It's a lame comeback, but honest-to-Bork, Erik flinches.

He resettles himself soon enough, though, and when he next speaks his voice is black. "You don't leave until I have everything I want to know. Is. That. Clear?"

Seeing no way out, Charles nods. He tightens the straps of his satchel as discreetly as he can, just in case.

"We can't talk here," Erik says. "Let's move."

"Lead the way," Charles shrugs.

 

X

 

"This?" Charles says, looking dispassionately around the sordid excuse of a room. Half a pace away, a giant gratfly ballets lazily in the air, tooting its fibrous horn. Immediately, Charles feels dirty all over. "This is your hiding place."

"It's not a hiding place," Erik says impatiently. Then he grins. "It's an interrogation room.

 

X

 

As far as the interrogation goes, well. Erik's not very good at that sort of thing.

"So let me get this straight," Charles says. He's belatedly realized that he's sitting in what Sean (fuck, _Corpsman_ Sean) would call an aggressive power pose: legs open, chest wide, palm on knee and elbow splayed, and since it seems to be working quite well, he doesn't move to change his posture. "Emma Frost stole something from you, and then she lost it, and now you want it back?"

Erik nods. "That's right, yes."

"What does this something look like, exactly?"

"A glass orb. About this size," Erik motions.

"Hmm," Charles makes a non-committal noise. He knows _exactly_ where that orb is, and hopes that his face isn't lighting up like a neon arrow. His fingers skitter across the edge of his satchel, a nervous tic, a tell his mother tried so hard to rid him of.

Oh, but she's dead now, isn't she? She's not around to berate Charles for anything anymore, and he wouldn't have to ever hear her disappointed voice again. And right _now_ he's clearing his throat to pull himself right out that dangerous spiral of thought. Before he can think better of being so damn obvious, Charles begins, delicately, "If, ah, hypothetically, someone were to have this glass orb... hypothetically, how much would you pay for it?"

Looking serious all of a sudden, Erik says, "My life."

"Can you trade food and ship repairs for your life?" Charles complains.

Erik clicks his tongue. "Forty-five million units." Then he narrows his eyes. "Why? Do you have the orb?" His voice begins to take on a thunderous echo, and he _looks_ at Charles' fingers gripping too tightly at his satchel. " _Is that what Frost owes you for?_ "

"Shit!" Charles curses, and jolts from his seat. Erik's knife swings and misses Charles' carotid artery by a heartbeat. Charles scrambles away in an instant. The straps of his bag briefly catch on the back of his chair, and the flimsy thing topples over and clatters to the ground, the sound ringing back and forth within his skull. "Raven, run!"

Raven titters behind him, partly in excitement, because she's nasty and bored like that. But half her titters convey concern, so Charles forgives her entirely inappropriate pirouetting. Besides, he's got more important things to do.

Namely, dodging the _bullets aimed at his throat_.

He ducks, then, and flings the fallen chair high up towards Erik's torso. While Erik's distracted by projectile wood, Charles barrels into the exit, yanking the door open and swerving left. A narrow, dimly-lit corridor greets him, lights flickering on as he nears them.

"You're faster than you look," Erik comments, half his face pulled up in a predatory grin. The other half just looks murderous. Arms raised, submachine gun at the ready, Erik begins to fire.

Charles doesn't even want to know where he keeps his weapons. "You're exactly as violent as _you_ look!" he yells back as he rounds a corner into a corridor full of windows, feeling the whoosh of bullets nearly grazing the back of his neck. The windows behind him shatter, raining pinpricks of glass. He raises his arms to shield himself, fists clenching in reflex, and continues sprinting. There's a fire escape at the other end. Good.

"I don't intend to torture you," Erik calls, coolly, some ten paces behind him. Charles can't see, but he figures Erik must be shrugging. The bastard. "Tell me where Emma Frost is and you'll die peacefully."

Gritting his teeth, Charles grouses, "Oh, that does makes it _all_ better."

As he advances towards the fire escape, Raven sidles away to do her thing - namely, transmogrifying into an elastic shield to bounce the incoming hail of bullets back. Slowing to catch his breath, Charles murmurs, between pants, "Thanks, Raven." He's not had to run for ages. That's a good thing. "To tell you the truth, this is not how I planned to spend the weekend."

Raven screeches, urging him to flee. She can maintain form for around thirty seconds max, so Charles follows her advice immediately. Out in the fire escape, he gets an adequate vantage point of below. They are on the fourth floor, and as long as he's on the steps of the fire escape he's protected; Erik's mad if he tries to shoot where the bullets can so easily ricochet. Once he reaches the ground, though, he'll be out in the open. In an alleyway, where there's not much space to maneuver.

Charles curses. His eyes dart around, looking for something to use. A shield, perhaps. Or a rope to rappel down to the building opposite the alleyway. Something.

"Why don't you give up?" Erik says, calmly waiting for Raven to return to her original form. Already, several patches of her is rippling blue. "I might even let you live."

"Somehow I doubt that's true," Charles shouts back, strapping his satchel more securely to his back. "Either you catch and kill me or I die trying. Nothing to lose here." He hates losing, really. That's why he tries to do it as little as possible. It's just the principle of the thing.

His spies a dumpster, right next to the fire escape. Plan solidifying in his mind, he descends the stairs, twice leaping past railings to skip over a couple flights. On the second floor, he gets close enough to the dumpster for a comfortable jump --

And there he goes. He lands on top of gunk and black plastic bags, nose diving into a rotten banana peel. Gagging at the foul smell, he grabs the dumpster lid and slams it shut, just in time to shield him from the next blizzard of bullets. Raven's returned to her original from, then. The sound of bullets ricocheting outside the metal dumpster rings painfully in his ears, but he stays in this pile of trash because he _doesn't want to get shot, Jesus_.

Erik's stopped shooting, which means he's now descending the fire escape.

Lifting the dumpster lid slightly, just enough for a peek, he sees Erik approaching, casual as a walk in the park. He's not even out of breath, that bastard. But this works in Charles' favor. Trying to control his breathing, he places both his palms on the front wall of the dumpster, feet digging around trash to find solid footing. It's awkward, the position he ends up in, but he reckons he can get solid momentum.

As soon as Erik lifts the lid, Charles pushes up, locking his elbows, palms planted on the edge. He swings his legs up and sideways in a windmill; his shin makes contact with Erik's head, and as Erik falls Charles extends the motion, letting momentum do the rest of the work. In two seconds he's out of the dumpster, crouching over a prone Erik. There's a banana peel hanging over his shoulder, and Charles flicks it away, easy.

Erik snarls. Charles dodges a punch, then grabs and tries to tug his gun away, before giving it up as a long shot. That thing is fucking _heavy_. But in that moment of distraction Erik's managed to regain his stability and he digs his fingers around Charles' shoulders, rolling them over and slamming Charles down.

So. Now Charles is trapped again. Great.

Erik snarls once more, gun forgotten at his side. Lucky me, Charles thinks glumly. He struggles, feet kicking up uselessly.  But his fingers manage to filch the knife Erik's hip holster, before Erik clenches his wrist so tightly that Charles drops it. Erik flings it away, and it spins below the dumpster, out of reach.

They grapple in the alley, each trying to gain the upper hand. This is highly reminiscent of last night, Charles observes as he dodges yet another punch. Except last night was much less painful and, also, he had no clothes on. In retaliation for a knee to his hip, he digs his nails into Erik's collarbone.

This goes on for a while.

In the aftermath, Erik is pressed against Charles, palms on the ground on either side of his head, his body a long seam of hardness. His coat is haphazard, and Charles's nails has actually managed to tear his thin undershirt open. Both of them are breathing hard.

There's a moment when they just stare at each other.

Erik's gaze darts to his lips, and he swallows, gulping audibly. He lifts himself up slowly, but he doesn't remove himself from above Charles. Like this, Charles can see his whole body, and his vision zones in on the drip of sweat on his neck that moves, propelled by the motion, towards his collarbone and down to his bare chest. And then he can't stop staring.

Erik's chest is a fucking war-zone. What's not swathed in bandages is covered in scars, stitches and wounds that don't even look real. Some of those look new, even. And the one beneath his bandages has opened up, because there's a spot of blood there that's getting slowly bigger and bigger.

"What happened to you?" Charles whispers, horrified. His eyes must be as wide as dinner plates. Slowly, as if hypnotized, he raises a palm to touch the bandages on Erik's torso. It's not a shallow wound; blood seeps out in rivulets, the bandages dripping wet and askew. Erik flinches, his breath stuttering, but it's not because of pain. No, not that. Charles has seen wounded animals behave like this; it's fear, and wariness, the defense of someone unused to being at the end of something soft.

The moment doesn't last long. Seconds later, Erik growls and slams Charles back down onto concrete.

His spine is pressed against the ground, his satchel digging awkwardly into the small of his back. Mud seeps into his hair, the smell of blood and rot creeping into his nostrils. Charles raises his hands to rub his bruised head, but when he catches sight of his palms there's -- there's blood on his hands.

There's _so much blood_ on his hands.

Charles gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, face twisting in imagined ( _real_ ) pain.

Erik's eyes widen. "Wait, what're you -"

Moving on auto-pilot, Charles brings his satchel up across Erik's cheek, sending his face whipping sideways. This is not about winning or losing anymore, now. Not about the forty-five million unit glass orb in his satchel.

There's blood on his hands. Suddenly, Charles finds himself transported back to the battlefield. The outer territories of Xandar, infested by Sentinels - they advance by miles every single day, getting closer and closer to the heart of the planet. The Nova Corps are falling, one by one. _Charles' team_ is falling, their lives slipping away from his fingers like grains of sand.

Centurion Charles Xavier was stationed in Arkan, a tiny hillside region that was once peaceful. This was his last battle, and he lost.

Charles runs.

He runs and runs, out onto the main street. It's now daylight. Swarms of people are up and about, the crowd chattering away about nonsense - all of them, going about their own way, unaware of danger.

Beside him, Raven is screeching, slamming herself to his cheek. She sounds panicked.

"Get away," Charles shouts, shoving at the crowd. "Run, get away from here!" Some people look at him weirdly, but they resume walking at a glacial pace. "The Sentinels are coming!" Charles tries again, but it's futile. Nobody's listening.

"Hey!" Erik's voice. "What the hell?"

"There's no time to explain!" Charles says. He is trapped in the flashback, and on some level he knows this isn't real. Raven's screeching reminds him of that. But the blood, the sudden palpitation of heart, the course of fear-driven adrenaline in his veins - all of those feels real. "Where's Darwin?" he asks, lost.

"Who?" Erik shouts again from far behind him.

"I need to get to the broadcast tower," Charles gasps, gazing at the hulking metal structure about a couple hundred meters away. He doesn't think Erik can hear him, but Erik follows as Charles takes off on a mad sprint.

The Cruxifer Broadcast Tower has one main spire, with a trinity of smaller office towers connected to the main broadcast station by dangerously unstable bridges. Charles barges in Tower Three, breathing hard. Ignoring the security guards, he runs straight to the elevator, and begins wildly pressing buttons.

"Sir," one of the guards approach, clearing his throat.

"There's no time!" Charles rasps. He's barely noticed that he's shaking like a leaf. "They're coming! I have to warn the citizens." The urgency in his voice must be transparent, because even though the guard looks skeptical at first he makes a move to step away.

Fortunately, the commotion that surges behind him diverts the guard's attention fully - Erik, being asked to remove his weapons and protesting violently. Charles hears snatches of the guard calling for reinforcements. Not good.

At the elevators, Charles taps his foot in impatience. It seems like ages until one of them _pings,_ and then he's off to the top. The last thing he sees as the door closes is Erik's angry face, guards shouting behind him. Raven's still making noises, protesting, but she follows, and Charles feels intensely grateful.

It takes a minute and a half to get to the top. A minute and a half of silence.

Charles sags against the elevator wall. Raven's pressing up against his cheek, making quiet noises that are soothing.

It's quiet, and it's small and safe and solid, no cliffs or canyons full of hiding places, where Sentinels can leap at them in an instant. Charles feels his breath slowing, the lines of reality solidying once more. He can still smell blood, but the nausea and panic is receding, leaving him drained and feeling a lot silly.

"I'm fine," Charles breathes, hugging Raven close to his chest. She purrs softly. "I'm fine, Raven. We can turn back now. I'm sorry."

And that's when the elevator door opens. He's greeted by a dozen guards, all their guns trained against whoever occupies the elevator. Reinforcements.

_Shit,_ Charles thinks. Raven darts and tucks herself beneath his clothes. Drawing a deep breath, willing himself not to panic lest he enter another flashback, Charles raises both arms and walks. Keep calm, he tells himself. Calm, cool, non-threatening. You are not here to hurt anyone.

And then another elevator pings. The guards and Charles all turn to watch the doors open.

Erik's there, a scowl on his face. The moment he sees Charles he growls, and lunges, managing to snatch Charles' satchel away. Charles swivels to see Erik retrieving the orb, a smug grin on his face.

Then the guards all start shooting.

Charles hisses and makes to snatch the orb, and Erik whisks his hand away. Rubber bullets are ricocheting all over the place. They _hurt_ , and Charles' sure that his limbs will be peppered with welts by morning. There's a lot of shouting, and all the noise, all the chaos and the pain - all of it brings him back, again, and the battlefield is now _real_ , realer than ever.

Raven's warning him not to lose himself again. But he can't, he can't, this feels too fucking --

In the pandemonium, the orb is flung from Erik's hand, and it rolls, slipping between the railings, falling beyond the bridge, and at the rate it's falling it'll hit the ground before either of them reaches it. Somewhere in distant memory (now), Sean is screaming for help. Sentinels are coming closer, thousands of them advancing over the hills of Arkan, flames bursting out of their throats, scouring the land clear of everything living.

Charles sets his gaze upon the orb ( _SeanDarwinAngelAlexHank_ ), fingers reaching out, and leaps to catch it. He will not fail them, this time --

"Charles, don't -" Erik yells, hoarse, before the orb and _Charles_ shatters into a million triangles of light.

 

X

 

_Blue light shines from the cracks. He is a sliver of nothing-space, a tiny electric melody that shivers out from the fissure of vision, and smell, and sound and taste and the way your skin prickles with the stab of icicle wind, a cauldron where amorphous thought funnels into cognition, realization, a starburst of sense-memory and sense-fantasy and the never-ending processor waltz of background noise._

_He is swimming in nothingness, in absence, in primordial soup. The philosopher's reason, the solipsist's binocular, the weaver that can tell tales only of itself. This is a celestial privilege, this is stars rolling off their perch, this is nonsense, this is all-sense, this is the tree from which the first fruits of knowledge grew. This is a love song sung to and by the universe._

 

X

 

"I made a mistake, letting you fight in this war," Sharon Xavier, Nova Prime, says, her voice sharp and unforgiving, her mind thick with disappointment. Charles walks with his head bowed, shoulders heavy with the weight of the lives he no longer needs to carry.

X

"What you are is a weapon," the Shadow King whispers from his throne. "And pain is what makes weapons sharper." There is a child, alone and tiny, crouched beside a lump of rock. Blood flows from the gashes upon his back, and that child swallows his fear, grits his teeth to earn the King's approval with a somber nod. This is not the first time, nor is it the last. This is where that child knows he belongs.

 

X 

 

Some people get used to the stench of blood eventually.

 

X 

 

In the real world, Charles screams.

 

X

_I'm sorry, he thinks. He must be crying. This is the waterfall at the end of the world, and at the end of everything he thinks, Sorry, sorry, sorry, I wish I could have done better._

_What is your answer, a voice says, like a beacon in the dark. What is your life, to you?_

_Yes, he answers, without remembering what the question is._

_Is that your answer?_

Yes.

_Somewhere out there, nothingness smiles._

X

 

Somewhere skirting the edge of the universe, a severed Celestial head blinks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...Despite all the appearances of a first chapter, I don't have a plot. Nor any knowledge about the Marvel Universe beyond what's shown in the movies. Seriously. _Help._


End file.
